


Find My Way Back

by tryslora



Series: All Our Yesterdays [22]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Divorce, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Purgatory, Stubborn Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Stiles straddles the space between life and death, Lydia is there to give him a good talking-to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find My Way Back

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Prompt #52 - Resolute at fullmoon_ficlet. I think I had more fun deciding on which synonyms applied to which boy than I probably should have. But seriously. Stiles and Jackson? All kinds of stubborn. And of course, I do not own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Lydia sits on the stump, her legs neatly crossed at the ankles, shoes a pair of bright red pumps that Stiles remembers from when they were sixteen.

Everything about her is sixteen again.

He glances down at himself, and yes, _Stiles_ is sixteen.

“This is where you died,” she reminds him.

He laughs. “Not exactly. This is _why_ I died. _Where_ I died was in a tub of water in the back of Deaton’s office, like a dog somehow drowning in its bath. You brought me back.”

“I know.” Her bright red lips press together in a thin line, her fingers tapping lightly where her hands are folded together in her lap. “You always said you’d follow me to the ends of the earth.”

He can’t help the wry smile. “You’ve been haunting me for years, Lydia. I can’t imagine a life without you in it. But see, that’s the important thing. I don’t have to follow you anywhere anymore. After all that time, now you follow me.”

“There. That.” She points at him. “That is an important point to be made.”

“You’re not making sense.” He rubs at his temples, pushing at them roughly, feeling the ache settling in. The headache is rising and he knows it will wrap around the base of his skull, squeezing until his brains feel like they’ll ooze out his ears. It’s a familiar sensation and one he hasn’t missed in recent years.

He blames the Nemeton.

“He still loves you, you know.”

For a moment Stiles thinks Lydia is talking about herself, then his brain rewinds over what she’s said and he hears the word _he_ and then he knows who she means. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to talk about it. If you’re going to make an informed decision, that has to be a part of it.”

“And informed decision about _what_ , Lydia?” Stiles stops walking and turns to look at her, his hands spread out. “What are we talking about here? And why? Why here? Why now? What the hell is going on?”

Her head cocks and her lips purse. “Do you really have to ask that question, Stiles?”

He hears the echo of a scream in her words, and the sound drops him to his knees. Hands press against his ears, fingers tangle in his hair and he pulls roughly, trying to drown the sound out.

He doesn’t have to ask.

He doesn’t want to know.

Stiles lands on his knees, head bowed, body taut as he curls around his center. “I’m dying,” he whispers.

“Well, not at this exact moment, but it could go either way.” She blinks when he gives her a sharp look. “What? I’m trying to be precise.”

He lowers his head again, hands at the back, curling tight for a moment. Then he rocks back on his heels, pushing to his feet and turning around, taking in the scenery. The woods. The dead stump. Lydia still sitting there, watching him.

Waiting.

“Are you really here?” He sinks onto the stump next to her. He doesn’t want to know if she’s solid, because if he’s sharing space with a dead woman and she’s real enough to touch, he’s in bigger trouble than he thought.

“I suppose it depends upon your definition of reality.” Lydia shrugs. “I’m real enough. But do you truly want to debate the inner workings of your mind and the definition of the space between life and death, or do you want to get your ass back to where it belongs before your daughter and husband lose their minds with worry?”

“Ex-husband.”

She gives him a look. “Yes, Stiles. _Ex_ -husband. However, that is another choice you can make and I expect that eventually you’ll sort yourselves out. You could _try_ to use your pigheadedness for the forces of good, you know.”

“Like surviving?”

“Like finding a way to move on with Jackson.”

He flinches when Lydia touches him, her fingers warm against his forearm. She squeezes lightly and smiles at him. “But yes, surviving as well. You are persistent, stubborn, unshakeable, single-minded… use that and find your way back to your equally stubborn, obstinate, _tenacious_ ex-husband, who refuses to leave your side or admit how he feels.”

It’s easier said than done.

The problem is, Stiles doesn’t know where to go. How to get there. How to make a change away from this place, this purgatory that he seems to have made for himself.

Lydia’s hand tangles with his, her other one folding over the top as she holds him. “You’re not dead yet, Stiles, and I don’t want to scream.” One hand comes up to cup his cheek and she kisses his lips lightly. “We’re not sixteen anymore. You’re over forty, you have a daughter who _is_ sixteen, and you need to be there for her. Just close your eyes and _go_.”

His eyes float closed without thought. He smells her perfume as he feels the light brush against his lips.

The pressure against his mouth deepens, then releases abruptly. When Stiles’s eyes flicker open again, Jackson is leaning close. Stiles blinks several times, his throat aching and dry, mouth tasting like ash. “What?” he asks, voice hoarse and rough.

Jackson sits back roughly, sinking into the nearby chair; Stiles feels a heavy squeeze around his hand. “It’s good to see you, asshole.” Jackson’s voice is low and shaky.

“Good to be here, dick,” Stiles responds. His head falls back, too heavy to hold up right now. The ache and exhaustion goes into his bones. But he can feel Jackson holding on to him, can see him sitting there, solid and real and right here in the world of the living. Stiles has an anchor, and in his mind he can hear Lydia’s voice.

_Don’t screw it up this time_.

He smiles slightly and closes his eyes, squeezing Jackson’s hand in return. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly, and he hears the soft huff of breath in response. It’s the best he can promise right now.


End file.
